


Chiromancer

by repeatogirl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Armor and Weaponry Appreciation, F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/repeatogirl/pseuds/repeatogirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tabris appreciates Alistair’s handiwork. The feeling's mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiromancer

For all his apparent oafishness and babbling, Alistair is surprisingly fastidious. Tabris never regrets giving him the best armor first; after all, not only he is the one charging headfirst into whatever horde they come across (granting her cover and time to sneak around to dispatch them), he apparently also takes great pains to keep his gear in the best working order. It’s not something that he makes known, usually taking to task at a spot furthest from camp, in the early hours of the day before anyone can verify that’s he’s not just halfwit warrior. Three-quarters, at least.

Of course, while Tabris knows it’s the kind of thing best done without interruptions, curiosity gets the better of her. He’s methodically repairing the little dents on his shield, carefully hammering them out with the pommel of his sword when she sidles up next to him.

"So, was it the flying the dogs that taught you how to do that?" she asks casually.

Surprised, Alistair’s hands lose their momentum and the soft _clang-clang-clang_ becomes a cacophonous mess as everything hits the ground. With wide eyes, he stares at her, blushing– something he’s wont to do these days, she notes– and scrambles to pick them up. “Tabris! Hi! Sorry! I didn’t know you were there, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you are sneaky after all– but not ‘sneaky’ in a bad, Morrigan way. I like the way you sneak– er, move. I mean…” His mind eventually catches up to his mouth and after taking a breath, he continues, eyes finally focusing on her, “To answer your question, no, the dogs didn’t teach me this, _but_ they were terribly insistent that I learn as soon as possible.”

Tabris raises her eyebrows and despite her intentions to keep a straight face, she laughs.

Alistair relaxes a bit and turns back to his work. “Templar training. You’ve seen the outfits, right? Who do you think keeps them looking so shiny? If you think this is impressive, you should see my stitching.”

"Good enough to make that dress you promised to dance the Remigold in?"

There’s the slightest hitch in his tempo, but Alistair stays trained on the task at hand, keeping his eyes away from her. “Hey! I never _promised_. But like I said, for you, it would have be a _pretty_ dress. I’d find the best Orlesian silks and commission the work to better hands than mine.”

He’s mostly joking, but the teasing tone dies somewhere along the way and Tabris smiles softly at his sincerity.

 

* * *

 

Alistair doesn’t know why he mentions silk or his hands, because now he’s thinking about how their fearless leader would look in said dresses, and Maker help him, how that would feel under his hands. He can’t bear to look at her face to confirm if she’s amused or horrified, but she’s not making a single sound, so he strains to find another dent to fix. There’s not. Cursing his diligence, he briefly wonders if he can just hide under his shield and scuttle away.

His dreams of escape plans are cut short when he feels her shifting positions and sees her hands move into his sight line. She takes his shield and peers at it closely, inspecting his progress. In doing so, she’s partially obscured her face, so he can’t quite make out her expression when she tells him, “I don’t know. If your work here is any indication, I think it’d be great. You wouldn’t stop until you got it just right.”

There’s no sarcasm in her voice, but he’s still grateful for the obstruction between them, so that she can’t see how proud he is… of the repair work, of course. He knows his sewing limitations.

 

* * *

 

Tabris brings the shield down and flashes him a sly smile. Instead of handing it back, she slips her right arm through the leather enarmes; it’s ill-fitting but the difference makes her realize how large Alistair’s forearms must be, even underneath the vambraces. She can feel the heat creeping up her face at the thought of his bare arms, so with an utterly _un-stealthy_ quick tilt of the head, she focuses on tightening the straps to fit her. She’s not used to the motion and despite her dexterity– _not at all_ due to the inappropriate train of thought– she fumbles with the buckles.

Without a word, Alistair assists her; there’s not a notch small enough, so he tightens it as best he can and lazily loops the end of the strap around the other half. It’s definitely not battle-ready, but it stays. She hefts the shield, trying her best not to betray how heavy it is for her, and gives him the meanest glare she can muster.

And he laughs.

 

* * *

 

It’s comical how large it is on her. On any other day he would never want to be on the receiving end of this look, let alone dare laugh at her, but his shield obscures most of her body, her eyes and pointed ears meekly poking out behind it.

"Wait!" He twists around, grabs his helmet, and plops it on her head, completing the menacing look. Like his shield, it swallows her up, sinking so that only her eyes are visible, only the occasional wisp of hair poking out.

It’s adorable.

She doesn’t bother maintaining the glower for long. She drops her shield-wielding arm and brings the other up to her head, her face scrunching up as she removes the helmet. “Ow, my ears.”

Before he knows better, Alistair reaches out with his right hand and brushes her hair out of the way to inspect the damage, gently massaging the reddened cartilage. His laughter hasn’t completely subsided, so he’s still chuckling when he apologizes, “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

Thankfully, she only grins at him and he doesn’t even realize he’s still touching her face until she speaks. “How do you fight with this all the time? It weighs a ton.”

Somehow by Andraste’s grace she hasn’t moved his hand away, focused instead on undoing the leather straps. After a moment of conflict and an internal groan (he hopes), Alistair removes his hand and helps her once again.

"Me? What about you with the daggers? Too much hand-eye coordination for me, thank you very much. I will take a simple shield bash over a fancy double sweep any day."

"Well _that_ doesn’t surprise me.” He feigns a hurt look, but it quickly fades as her smile grows.

Enarme-free, she shakes out her wrist and wiggles her fingers. “It’s not that fancy. I could teach you one day, if you wanted. Early tomorrow morning maybe?”

 

* * *

 

If she’s being honest, her offer isn’t entirely altruistic. His armor isn’t suited for the movement, so he’ll have to wear less. And less and less…

Alistair’s eager reply snaps her back to reality. “I’d love that! But… can we make sure to do this when Zevran and Leliana aren’t awake?”

Tabris can already imagine how the other two rogues might react and all the prospective wolf-whistles and ribald remarks are almost irresistible. However, she knows that much innuendo might just kill him and with a laugh, she nods.

Graciously he accepts that, no immediate quip at the ready. They only have a few moments before the rest of the party is up and about, so they savor the silence while the sun burns brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my first foray into the Dragon Age fandom and my first fic in… two years? *hides under a shield and scuttles away*
> 
> (Also, this was originally posted on my tumblr, but I've since reformatted some of it and changed a few tiny details.)


End file.
